Chapter 2 - The Sixty-Second Hold
The air in the private NICU suite turned to solid ice.
The heart monitor attached to the baby’s tiny ankle gave a soft, rhythmic beep—the only steady sound in a room where five men had just stopped breathing.
Daniel Russo didn’t move. He didn’t reach for a gun. He didn’t yell. He simply lowered his head until his dark eyes were shadowed by the sharp line of his brow bone. The sheer, crushing weight of his presence seemed to double, pressing against my lungs harder than the infant resting against my bare sternum.
"Jenkins," Daniel repeated. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that sent a violent shiver down my spine. "As in... Tommy Jenkins. The kid who runs numbers for the Valenti crew on 14th Street."
"He's my brother," I whispered. My hands were trembling, but I kept them locked around the baby’s tiny, warm back, keeping him pressed firmly against my exposed skin. "He's twenty-two, Mr. Russo. He's an idiot, he makes mistakes, but he's my brother."
Marco, the broad-shouldered underboss standing beside the door, drew a heavy black pistol from his suit jacket. "Boss, the execution detail left for the docklands twenty minutes ago. If Tommy’s still at the garage, they're pulling the trigger right about now."
"No!" The scream ripped out of my throat before I could stop it.
The baby against my chest twitched. A tiny, high-pitched whimpered escaped his lips, his skin flushing faint pink.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," I rasped frantically, dropping my chin to the baby's soft head, humming that low, vibrating tone against his skull while staring at Daniel with pure terror in my eyes. "Please... don't. Please."
Daniel looked down at his son. He watched the way the infant’s fingers hooked into the strap of my scrub top. He watched the monitor drop back down to a clean, stable seventy beats per minute.
Then, Daniel reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a silver cell phone.
He pressed a single button and held the phone to his ear. The silence in the room was so absolute I could hear the faint, hollow ring through the speaker.
"Vince," Daniel said into the phone. His voice carried zero emotion. "Where are you?"
A grainy voice answered over the line. "Standing in front of Jenkins' garage, boss. We got him pinned against the workbench. Just waiting on your final confirmation."
I closed my eyes. Tears squeezed past my lashes, hot and burning, dripping down my cheek and onto the baby’s hair.
"Hold your fire," Daniel commanded.
A beat of hesitation came over the line. "Boss? The contract—"
"I said hold your fire!" Daniel’s voice cracked across the room like a bullwhip. The guards at the door flinched. "Put him in the back of the van. Bring him to the Lake Forest estate. Uncut, unharmed. If he has a single scratch on him when I get home, Vince, I will put you in the ground in his place."
Daniel ended the call and tossed the phone onto the stainless steel cart beside the incubator.
He took two slow, deliberate steps toward me. He was so close now I could smell the sharp scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and faint copper on his clothes. He leaned down until his face was inches from mine.
"Your brother lives," Daniel murmured, his dark eyes searching my terrified face. "For now."
"Thank you," I choked out.
"Don't thank me yet, Nurse Jenkins," Daniel replied, his voice dropping into a lethal, velvet register. "You just made a trade. Your brother’s life for my son’s. As long as this child sleeps, your brother breathes. If my son cries... if his heart falters... if he suffers for a single second because you failed... I will let Vince finish what he started."
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He reached out. His fingers were long, calloused, and surprisingly warm as he gently brushed a stray tear off my cheek. His thumb lingered over my jawline for a fraction of a second, a dark, possessive touch that made my heart hammer wildly against my ribs.
"Marco," Daniel ordered without looking away from me. "Clear the room. Get the transport team ready. We're moving my son and his new nurse to the mansion tonight."
